A young man who works as a waiter
Has a reputation as an unreliable narrator.
He has written a novel
In a rundown old hovel.
But some whisper, he’s only a waiter …!
A young man who works as a waiter
Has a reputation as an unreliable narrator.
He has written a novel
In a rundown old hovel.
But some whisper, he’s only a waiter …!
A young lady who wears 1 spectacle
Has a reputation for being very respectable.
I’ve seen her at night
Dancing by the moon’s light,
And she’s only been wearing 1 spectacle …!
I have heard it said
That girls kick a shoe under the bed
In a purely accidental way.
Then, in retrieving their footwear they take care
To check for knives
Or other things that threaten lives.
And, should they find more than a shoe
(which some girls do),
They run from men
Who would harm them.
But not all girls do.
And of those who do
Not all make their escape …
A young lady known as Miss Nicola
Invites all the gentlemen to tickle her.
My friend Heather
Dresses in leather
And no gentlemen dares to tickle her …
The scent of cheap perfume
Pervades an overheated room.
She in her mini skirt
And too high heels.
He in t-shirt and jeans.
They play their scenes.
She loses skirt and heels
And feels
The threadbare carpet under her feet.
She wants to sleep …
Sometimes she weeps,
But not in front of them.
He sighs.
His fun is done.
Occasionally he cries,
Though not when they can see.
The same dance
Of no romance
Over and over again
To hide his pain.
She has a child to feed
Or perhaps some other need.
Sometimes he wonders about them.
But they are free
As is he …
To choose …
I know a young lady named Lin
Who is writing a dissertation on sin.
My wife Coral
Finds her immoral.
But I’m really quite fond of Lin …
I passed by
Where you once lived
And remembered how you gazed at the stars
So far away.
It is cold today
But you are lost to frost and sunshine.
You denied the divine
Yet loved the starry sky.
No telescope can see where you are gone.
Yet I think you would agree with me
That we came from stardust
And must go
Beyond where the telescope can see
A young lady whose name is Mustard
Said, “you are a no good bustard!”
I said to her, “Beth,
You bore me to death!
Go wash your hair in egg custard!”
When a young lady wearing just shoes
Said, “I want to be your poetic muse!”
I said to her, “Rose!
You are wearing no clothes!”
She said, “that’s how you like your muse …!”
In early January
My shadow goes in front of me.
The sun shines
But my hands are cold.
One day I know
My shadow will no longer go.
Though perhaps in rhyme
I will leave something behind
And people may see
Something of me.
For poets make shadows
Through their poetry